


Viva Las Vegas

by MillyVeil



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, R&R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 19:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: John and Rodney try to catch some R&R during a visit back home. There's beer, food talk, sex, SGC lemmings, and bad memories.





	Viva Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> Another SGA oldie I dug out and dusted off. 
> 
> For those readers who may patiently be waiting for the last part of Clint's and Natasha's chilly adventure in 'Spin Cycle', rest assured that I'm working on it! :)

John is lying on the hotel bed, his fingers drawing idle patterns on the bedspread as he listens for footsteps outside the door. The busy flower print tries its best to cheer up the bland room with its garish colors, but he only registers it as ugly and unimaginative. A hotel room is a hotel room.

He's on his fourth round of going through the gazillion TV channels available when two concise knocks on the door are heard. He takes his time getting up, stretching a little to work the kinks out of his back. When he opens the door he sees Rodney waiting on the other side.

"Hi," John says. He relishes the moment of closeness as Rodney sidles past him, because he has felt weirdly detached from everything ever since they stepped through the event horizon, trading Atlantis for the bare concrete walls at the SGC.

Rodney drops his bag on the floor and tosses the car keys onto the bed. The rental tags make a flat, plastic noise as they bounce on the ugly cover. "You have the beer?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Hello, John," John says when no greeting seems to be forthcoming. He closes the door and leans his back against it. "Nice to see you, John. How was your flight?" He shifts and slides his fingers through the loops of his jeans, putting his weight on one foot in what must look like a deliberate pose. He doesn't care. "Why, it was great, Rodney. Thanks for asking."

Rodney drops his jacket in a heap on one of the two chairs. "Oh, please. Do I look like an adoring housewife?" He places the laptop carefully on the desk before kneeling in front of the small fridge.

"No, not right now," John admits with a grin and pushes away from the door. "But you know, I remember you looked pretty good with lipsti-"

"Oh, shut up." Rodney pulls the door to the small fridge open and light spills across his face and front. "Why that Big Bird-wannabe insisted on molesting _me_ with his disgusting finger paint is still beyond me."

"Doctor McKay," John admonishes, "you know that personal sacrifices must sometimes be made in the name of establishing new trading relations."

Rodney sits back on his heels and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh, God, you're channeling Elizabeth. Stop it." When John doesn't stop grinning, he glares. "I had a rash for four days. _Four days._ And I don't recall you offering yourself up."

John arches a brow. He actually had volunteered to switch places with Rodney that time, and he thinks forgetting such a magnanimous gesture borders on rudeness. It wasn't John's fault that the village chief had insisted it be Rodney. Rodney stares blankly at him for another couple of seconds, then blinks, and yep, John can tell the exact moment that particular part of the memory surfaces. At least Rodney has the grace to look a little sheepish.

"Okay, fine, so you did offer yourself up." Rodney's face goes from embarrassed to sullen in one point two seconds. "Fat lot of good it did me, though."

"Hey, I tried."

"Well, you should’ve tried harder."

"What was I supposed to do? Shoot them because they wanted to honor you?"

"It would have been a good start," Rodney grumbles and turns back to the fridge. "Why do things like that always happen to me, anyway?"

"Could it be your winning personality?" The bed creaks a little as John flops down on his front. He rests his head on his folded hands and watches Rodney sideways.

"There's nothing wrong with my personality."

"It's... an acquired taste."

Rodney's offended reply derails halfway into the first word, transforming into a low, pleased sound that lets John know that the Molsons at the back of the fridge have been found. 

"You're forgiven," Rodney breathes. The glass on glass clink lets John know he's pulling out a couple of bottles. "Everything you've ever said or done that was annoying or childish or stupid or reckless, you're hereby forgiven."

"Why, Rodney, you are too generous."

"Seriously." He sounds almost giddy. "This might even be worth one for the future. Preemptively."

"What, like a 'Get out of jail free' card?" John rolls over on his back and slides his hands under his head.

"Exactly."

There's the sound of a bottle being uncapped and then Rodney looms over him. John takes the offered beer and clinks the bottle neck against Rodney's. He props himself up on his elbow and takes a small sip, watching as Rodney closes his eyes and downs half of his beer in one go.

"You tired?" John asks when Rodney lowers the beer, because there's a hint of manic energy in Rodney that he recognizes from times past when sleep was scarce, but the job needed to be done anyway.

"Caffeine is a wonderful thing," Rodney says by way of an answer, waving his hand. "You?"

"Nah," John says, even though he's spent the better part of two hours blinking away jetlag and fatigue, waiting for that knock on the door.

They've been Earthside for just over 20 hours, and in that time John has been herded around like a damn sheep. The two of them had been escorted straight from the gate room by two heavily armed marines to the mandatory medical check-up, where they’d spent an hour and a half being drained of various bodily fluids and answering the usual questions before being released. With a polite 'Please come this way, Sir' - which hadn't been a request at all, and hadn’t included Rodney - John had been escorted to a barren briefing room on level 17.

Three hours and one relentless debriefing later (starring Hammond, O'Neill, and a Johnson in civilian clothes, whom Hammond clearly distrusted and O'Neill apparently wanted to gate to a world without a viable atmosphere) John had found himself hustled through the gray, non-descript corridors of the Cheyenne Mountain complex again. He had managed to catch a momentary glimpse of the lab in which Rodney was already engaged in hot discussions with a handful of SGC techs. When Rodney had spotted John on the other side of the bullet-proof observation window, he had rolled his eyes and mouthed something that John hadn't quite been able to make out before he was waved away with an impatient gesture.

After having lunch on his feet (according to John's internal clock it had been more like a very late dinner) and receiving a cryptic warning from O'Neill to watch his six, he’d been taken to Colorado Springs Airport where a private jet had been standing by on the hot tarmac.

When they touched down at Regan National Airport four hours later, a dark sedan with tinted windows had been waiting for him, and O'Neill's comment started making more sense.

The Pentagon debriefing had been more taxing than the one with Hammond and O'Neill, mainly because John hadn't known the agenda of the people across from him. His dress uniform had felt uncomfortable and alien, and he'd found himself longing for his Atlantis-issue BDUs. He had also wished, once again, that Elizabeth could have come with them. Because even though John has spent a lifetime answering questions without telling more than he has to, Elizabeth masters the ins and outs of high-level diplomatic games better than he ever will.

The whole scenario – the deceptively neutral questions, the layout of the tables (John seated in front of a row of backlit, grim military brass) – had carried the same hollow feel as the hearing that had resulted in the non-choice between an assignment at the end of the world and being court-martialed for disobeying direct orders. Just like that time three years ago, John had felt abandoned and exposed, and after two hours of not knowing exactly what bullet he was dodging, he had been exhausted and more than happy to be dismissed.

He’d checked in with Cheyenne Mountain to make sure there wasn’t anything else he needed to do before he left for his three days of well-deserved R&R. Nothing, O’Neill had answered. Enjoy Sin City.

John had dozed about an hour on the flight to Vegas, but it hadn't been anywhere near enough, and god, he hates the time zone thing. Not between Colorado Springs and DC and Vegas, he hasn’t been back long enough for it to make a difference, but the time difference between Atlantis and Earth. It's always sliding thanks to the differences in planetary rotations, and John is starting to suspect that someone at SGC has made a pattern of requesting them to come through when the time difference is at its worst, just to make sure they're as off-balance as can possibly be. He doesn't have any evidence to support this, so he keeps his mouth closed about it. For all he knows, someone could simply think it’s a blast seeing them stumble around loopy with lack of sleep.

He looks up as the air conditioner unit in the corner of the hotel room comes to life with a low rumble. Rodney toes off his shoes before sitting down on the edge of the bed and one-handedly starts to untie John's. He keeps the beer bottle in his other hand.

"So?" Rodney looks up at him, deft fingers working on John's laces. "What did they say?"

John pulls one of the oversized pillows out from under him and repositions it more comfortably behind his head. "Not much," he answers truthfully. "They asked a lot of questions, though."

"What kind of questions?" Rodney eyes him suspiciously. "You didn't say anything stupid, did you?" He backtracks almost immediately. "No, no, of course you didn't." His fingers pause on John’s laces, and he frowns. "Right?"

John is suddenly acutely aware of the dog tags hidden from view under his shirt, and he knows Rodney is too. Despite the way John carries himself most of the time, he is very much career military. Over the past years he has worked himself up to a decent position among the small, exclusive group of people that Rodney considers friends, but he has come to realize that Rodney's distrust of the military runs deeper than most people realize.

"No, Rodney, I didn't say anything stupid." John laces his reply with a hint of an edge, because they've had this conversation before, elsewhere, in other forms, in different words.

Rodney doesn’t look completely mollified, but he doesn't push the issue. He’s a civilian who has worked for the military in one form or another almost all of his adult life, and as such he is acutely aware that his position, a civilian contractor in the middle of a military wet dream - stargates, advanced weaponizable technologies, defense systems, Atlantis herself – means his life's work can be taken from him at any given time. By now John knows that this was one of the reasons why every single thing had been a tough sell when they first met. They're beyond that now, above that, but the slope that leads back down is steep and slippery. John does his best to keep his footing, because Rodney eventually forgives, but he doesn't forget.

Not forgetting doesn't mean holding a grudge in Rodney's case. It's just that _everything_ is catalogued in that huge brain of his, and John has a nagging suspicion that there's a mental folder somewhere deep down there, buried under all kinds of encryption, named TTSHTYJSWOPWY.hex (short for Things That Should Have Told You John Sheppard Was Only Playing With You) - and doesn't that make you feel all special and tingly inside? But that's how Rodney works. His default setting is suspicion. Most of the time John thinks that's a pretty good thing, especially since they're hanging out full time in a galaxy where pretty much everyone and everything seem to be out to kill them.

He takes a swig of his beer. "I think I did all right. I haven't heard anything about not going back, so I guess I still have a job."

Rodney nods. "Good," he says with emphasis, and gets back to untying John’s shoe. He pulls it off, his fingers skimming the skin above John's sock, light as air, before it, too, is removed.

"Yeah," John agrees, and he can't help smiling, because Rodney is never overly generous with positive endorsement. John's more used to things like: 'this is a horrible plan', or 'go waste someone else's time', or 'you're an idiot and for the good of the gene pool you should never be allowed to breed'. (John kind of deserved that last one. But that-which-shall-never-be-mentioned only happened once, and it was a long, long time ago).

Rodney knows a thousand colorful ways to call a person an idiot. John knows a thousand ways of saying nothing with many words. Ingrained as the habit is over a lifetime, it is hard to kick, even when John wants to. So with Rodney he prefers show over tell – and really, he thinks a good blowjob is like a picture. It speaks more than a thousand words. He watches Rodney take another sip of beer before licking his lower lip, completely unaware of John's eyes on him. John would _love_ to take the lead here, to get them to where he wants them to go, but he decided long before Rodney knocked on the door to let him set the pace, and Rodney doesn't seem to be in a hurry.

And as if to emphasize just that, Rodney leans over and snatches the room service menu from the bedside table. He flops down on his back next to John and starts flipping through it quickly. John glances down at his other shoe, halfway untied and sadly forgotten.

"Hey, you think we should try the burgers?" Rodney asks and waves the menu at him.

John snatches it from his fingers. "If you want burgers in this neck of the woods, you don't order room service, Rodney. You go to the In-N-Out."

"What kind of restaurant is named In-N-Out? It sounds like a porn flick. A bad one."

"Don't knock it till you tried it," John grins. He sits up and pulls off the remaining shoe and sock, then scoots back until his shoulders rest squarely against the headboard. He tilts his head towards Rodney. "I mean, sure, it's got all the charms of a parking lot, but their burgers are out of this world."

"No, thanks," Rodney says. "I just got back to this one."

John groans, because there is no way he thinks a guy who snickers at his own bad jokes is hot. No way.

Apparently Rodney decides he isn't all that hungry after all, because when John gives the menu back he just sits up and tosses it back onto the table. "They have a handful of new hires back at the SGC," he says and drains what’s left of his beer.

"Yeah? They have what it takes?"

Rodney wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "I don't know, too soon to tell. But at least one of them should go far."

"Really?"

"Yes. The sooner he starts, the better."

John grins into his beer. "That bad, huh?"

"The rest show the cerebral proficiency of dyslexic lemmings, but at least there's a hint of potential there." Rodney leans over and plucks the bottle from John and sets it next to his own on the bedside table.

"Hey, now-." John's protest is cut short when Rodney straddles him, and John's breath wants to hitch a little when he realizes that Rodney's single-minded focus has shifted – _finally_ \- from beer and food.

Rodney flashes his teeth at him, a crooked, self-conscious grin that makes something go tight inside John. Sweet, familiar tension coils around his spine. He grabs Rodney and pulls him in for a kiss. Rodney tastes like beer, semi-bitter and sharp against John's lips, much like the man himself. Clever hands are moving in under the hem of John's shirt, already touching, searching, exploring skin that knows this song by heart. Rodney shifts in John’s lap, close and heavy, and god, John has been waiting for this since they stepped through the gate.

Rodney detours his mouth to the side of John's neck and licks at the sensitive skin there.

"So, I take it all the updates to the dialing system went-" John exhales when Rodney's hand slides down low between their bodies, "-well?"

"Most of them." Rodney strokes him through the fabric of the jeans that are already getting uncomfortably tight. "No thanks to the morons back there," he adds.

John squirms, searches for more friction against Rodney’s hand. He feels Rodney's lips curl up into a grin against the side of his neck. When Rodney starts coaxing him to lie down on the bed, John is all too happy to oblige.

"Good thing Carter's good at that sort of thing."

Rodney freezes for a moment, then pushes himself up. John's fingers grabbing his shirt is the only thing preventing him from leaving the bed all together.

"Whoa, where do you think you're going?"

"I don't need Carter to fix a mess she created in the first place." Rodney’s voice is low and tight.

"I never said you did." John places his free hand on the solid muscles of Rodney's thigh and simply lets it rest there, but Rodney remains tense and something about his reaction makes John wonder what the hell happened. "I just meant, she wrote those dialing subroutines, didn’t she?"

"She wrote the _interface layer_. The dialing subroutines were created by the Ancients.” Rodney pries his shirt out of John’s grip and climbs off him. “And what does that have to do with _anything_?"

"I'm just saying," John says, and fuck, he doesn't know how it happenend, but this is going in the absolute wrong direction, "that things have been working just fine for the past ten years, so obviously she must have done something right."

"For your information, things have _not_ worked fine for the past ten years,” Rodney snaps. “Do you know how many safety protocols they override every time they dial the SGC gate?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Too damn many. Because they can’t figure them out!"

John digests that disturbing tidbit of information. He knows just enough about gate travel technology to easily be able to imagine what might happen if the recombination of particles is just a fraction off. “Does the gate in Atlantis override—?“

“No, we’re using the full package. Pre-installed by the Ancients.” 

Well, that’s good, he thinks. But shit, going through the SGC gate will never be the same again. He decides it's a good thing they're going back to Atlantis onboard the Daedalus.

Across the room Rodney grabs another beer from the table and uncaps it with a sharp twist of his wrist. When he tosses the cap on the desk, it bounces off and falls to the floor. He doesn’t pick it up. With his index finger he pushes the drawn curtain to the side, the lines of his back tense and tired.

"I pointed it out years ago, but did they listen? No, of course they didn’t." There’s a note of old bitterness there, hiding under the scorn. 

As the TV drones in the background, John lies back and wonders what the hell happened back at the SGC to make Rodney this moody. And he wonders if maybe he should have left this particular subject alone. But it's too late now.

Rodney's shoulders rise and fall with a huge, slow breath. His voice, when he speaks again, is calm and composed. "Besides, she wasn't there. The dream-team was called out on some mission or another right after we came through."

John pushes up on his elbow, turns towards Rodney. "You think they'll be back before we take off?"

Rodney shrugs as if it doesn't matter to him, but John knows better.

Some of the whys and hows and whens of Rodney's strange relationship with Sam Carter are public knowledge, but John is well aware that there are aspects of it that he isn't even close to understanding. Part of the equation is no doubt the fact that Sam is just about the only person alive who actually matches Rodney in brains, and for Rodney that translates into a dark, hybrid mix of repressed respect and competitive envy. Another part of the puzzle - much smaller and much more deeply buried – carries the faint scent of Rodney continuing to look for ways to redeem himself in Sam's eyes. Rodney would take real offense if this was ever voiced, and since John has kind of gotten used to having sex regularly, he keeps this theory to himself. Besides, it's just a hunch, because Rodney doesn't talk about the incident that led to him being exiled to Siberia, and the SGC report (the one that John had to pull a lot of strings to get access to) had been sketchy at best.

John suspects that there are other things at play, too; things that probably predate both Sam and the stargate program, but whatever they are, they are bundled up securely at the core of the Russian nesting doll that is Rodney McKay, and neither of them talk much about such things.

And then, of course, there is the fact that Rodney openly declares his predilection to hot, smart blondes with short hair, so there's some attraction there, too. John runs his fingers up the bottle and collects the drops of condensate that are beading on the surface. He wipes his hand dry against his jeans and deliberately doesn't think about the way Rodney talked to her in the recordings they sent in the data stream to Earth before the first Wraith attack, when they thought they weren’t going to make it.

John hears Rodney swear under his breath, and he looks up to see him struggling with the lock to the balcony. He finally gets it open and the door slides open on well oiled rails. John slings his arm over his eyes and spends a few seconds listening to the weather channel and the sounds of the city bleeding in through the open balcony door before getting up. The concrete is still warm under his bare feet outside. He hadn’t looked out when he arrived, so now he stops and takes in the huge balcony. It's more of a terrace, really, and Las Vegas spreads out in front of them like a glittering mirage, filled with life and lights and secrets.

Rodney is leaning against the rail. Reflected neon light falls across his skin, paints his face with pulsing, crimson brush strokes. There’s an almost reverent look on his face as he gazes out over the city. It reminds John a little of that first day in Atlantis, when they realized they were staring up at several hundred feet of water. John likes that look. He doesn't see it often; no one does, because it takes a lot to awe Rodney McKay.

Knowing that he on very rare occasions has put that look on Rodney's face is enough to make something in John grow warm. When Rodney notices John there he takes another swig of his beer and when he lowers the bottle, he's looking annoyed and tired again.

The wind that sweeps in from the desert beyond the glittering lights is warm and dry and smells like exhausts, and John rests his forearms against the rail next to Rodney, an inch of air between their shoulders. "So," he says, drawing the word out. "Why Vegas?" He watches Rodney from the corner of his eye. He's wanted to ask since Rodney suggested it.

Rodney shrugs. "No particular reason."

"Come on," John pokes lightly at him with his elbow, "Rodney McKay never does anything without a reason."

"Well, this time he did," Rodney says and withdraws his arm, and there's a stubborn tilt to his chin that tells John that nagging won't get him anywhere tonight. Except maybe kicked out of Rodney's bed. But come to think about it, this is John's room, so technically he'd get himself kicked out of his own bed. 

"Have you been here before?" John asks, deciding to indulge Rodney's avoidance for the moment.

Rodney shakes his head. "Gambling has never fascinated me much."

"You play poker with us in Atlantis," John points out.

"That's different."

"Yeah? How? Because we play with markers made out of bone and clay, or because the newbies in Atlantis are actually fooled by your bumbling 'can I join, I've never played poker before' act? Just so you know, I hear they've added that bit of information to the welcoming package that the marines that come over are given."

Rodney shifts his focus from the city to John. "They get a welcoming package?"

"Well, this is more of an informal, verbal briefing."

"And I'm mentioned?"

"Yep."

Rodney looks like he doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered. "What do you tell them?"

"Nothing. I'm not supposed to know about it," John grins. "But the gunny informs them about stuff like thinking twice before messing with the chick with the sticks, because she will kick their asses, and that Barnes runs the black market, and Zelenka is the man to go to for hooch, so standing orders are to keep them happy."

"God, it's like Russia, all over again," Rodney snorts under his breath. "Booze and contraband make the world go round. What else?"

John shrugs. "Just to make friendly with the scientists, because as you well know," he gives Rodney a dark look, "things get complicated when doors refuse to open or close, or lights go out, or transporters go haywire and start taking you to really strange and far-away places in the city."

Rodney nods serenely. "I imagine life would be pretty difficult if that was to happen to someone over a longer period of time."

"It also warns to not make fun of Beckett's descent unless they have an affinity for very large needles in sensitive places. And added recently: don't play cards with McKay; he's a sneaky bastard. Also, he's a sore loser."

"Am not," Rodney grumbles. "Besides, you're the last person to comment on my card playing ethics."

"Excuse me?"

"Come _on_ , you think I don't know you cheat?"

"I don't cheat," John protests.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Please. You count cards like the worst poker shark. The only difference between us is that I have the misfortune of being cursed with the worst poker face in two galaxies." He makes a sour grimace.

John has to grin at that, because it's true. And you know what? Rodney can think what he likes, but John doesn't count cards. He's just got great intuition when to push and when to fold.

"Okay, I'm done staring at the pretty, pretty lights," Rodney announces. "Let's go inside where there's more beer, and have I told you how much I love air conditioning?" He doesn't look to see if John follows him as he strides inside.

John hasn't even made it two steps into the room when he's grabbed by the wrist and pushed backwards onto the bed. Rodney follows in a heavy tangle of arms and legs and impatient hands. He tugs at the hem of John's shirt. "Off. Take it off," he demands, and when it leads them in this direction John really approves of Rodney's mercurial moods.

He pulls the t-shirt swiftly over his head, trying to keep his elbows out of Rodney's face. Even before he is done, Rodney's hands are moving in, running flat and warm over his arms, across his chest, down his sides, and then he grinds his hips against John in a slow, languorous circle.

John swallows dryly. "Three days," he says. "Three whole days without reports and rosters. No emergencies, no space vampires trying to kill me."

"Don't jinx it," Rodney warns. He pulls his own t-shirt over his head and flings it away impatiently. "They could still call us back."

"They won't."

Rolling off John and onto his back, Rodney unbuttons his pants, lifts his hips and pushes them and his shorts down in one swift movement. A kick of the feet, and they're going the same way as the t-shirt. Onto the floor.

"They could," he insists as his fingers make short work of the buttons in John's jeans. They are pulled down and disappear together with his underwear somewhere beyond the edge of the bed. Rodney has never been one to waste much time.

He straddles John's lap again, and John hisses as he uses his feet as leverage to wiggle into a more balanced position. The feeling of skin against skin, slick and hot and super-sensitive, is like a high-amp current along every nerve. John's hands find Rodney's hips and he pulls him forward, straining up against the heat where their bodies meet.

Then one of his hands is abducted and a finger is sucked into Rodney's wet mouth. John's breath hitches a little when the tongue, slick and warm, swirls around slowly, coating the finger liberally with saliva. He lets his head fall back. There are teeth and suction and the sensations are going straight to his groin. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Rodney has to know what he's doing to John, _has to_ , the way he's pressing against John in all the right places.

Rodney releases John's finger with a wet sound. "Three whole days of cold beer," he says and leans in low over John, and he looks happy. Tired, but happy, the frustration from Colorado Springs seemingly left behind for now. 

"Three days of burgers." John manages to keep his voice almost completely steady.

Rodney's cheek is hot and stubbly against John's neck. "Real chocolate." His tongue licks a wet trail to John's ear.

"Live football on five different channels," John adds. Rodney's strong fingers are stroking him, and he clenches his teeth because noises, embarrassing noises, are pushing at the back of his throat.

"Coffee, obviously."

"Obviously," John echoes. He buries his fingers in Rodney's short, soft hair, and tries not to rip it out by the roots as Rodney's fingers brush over the sensitized head of his cock. "Sports Illustrated," he breathes.

"Tons of downloadable music".

John's aim is off as Rodney kisses him again, distracted as he is by the skilled handiwork going on between them, and he catches the corner of Rodney's mouth. Rodney's lips curl up in a small grin against John's, as the latter corrects his aim.

"Fast cars," John continues against Rodney's lips, because he's enjoying this. “God, the car they gave me...”

"What?" Rodney pulls back, and John almost moans when the hands abandons him. "What did they give you? I got a damn Ford Focus."

"Pontiac GTO." John feels hot excitement slither down his spine just saying it. Or maybe that's Rodney's doing.

Rodney looks down at John, his hands braced against the bed on both sides of John's head. His cheeks are flushed. "Let me guess, you didn't use the Hertz office at the airport?"

John snorts. “Yeah. No.”

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you know what I like?"

"Lethal means of transportation and moronic sports, apparently," Rodney grunts.

"Don't forget the food," John reminds him.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes, the porny burgers. How could I forget?"

"Not just burgers. Fries, too. And milkshakes. Milk. I forgot milk. Cold, fresh milk. I’m adding that to the list of things I love about being back here."

"Tangle Ridge" Rodney says wistfully. "Canadian whiskey," he clarifies when John looks blankly at him.

"Caipiroshka," John replies to that, mainly to see if Rodney knows the drink.

Rodney narrows his eyes into a scowls, so apparently he does, but to John's surprise he doesn't start in on the evils of citrus and death by anaphylactic shock. "Salmon," he says instead. "In any form.”

Rodney’s hands close around John's wrists, pressing them up over his head. John feels his fingers being pressed around the edge of the headboard, and he grabs it, shivering when Rodney's short, blunt nails rake lightly down the sensitive inside of his arms.

He closes his eyes with a grin. "Pad Thai. 

"Kavanaugh a galaxy and a half away."

"Sleeping as long as I want to."

"You," Rodney says.

John misses the beat of their exchange, and he blinks his eyes open in time to see Rodney's smile go a little brittle.

John lowers his arms slowly, placing both hands firmly on the sides of Rodney's face, because Atlantis' resident genius looks like he thinks he's just said too much. Rodney remains tense for a few long seconds before slowly relaxing under John's grip.

Only then does John lean up and places a hard, heartfelt kiss on Rodney's lips.

"Yeah," he says, his lips remaining close enough to brush over Rodney's when he speaks. He hopes that it's enough, that Rodney understands.

And it seems Rodney does, because eventually he returns the kiss, and his fingers wrap warm and strong around John's cock again.

Rodney scoots down between his knees, and John catches a glimpse of blue looking at him from under lowered lashes. A quick lick makes John inhale waveringly. Another lick, and then a quick glance up. Tease. Jesus, Rodney is such a fucking tease. Then John just about chokes on a groan as Rodney dips his head and takes him in his mouth.

Rodney starts out shallow, running his tongue around the sensitive head. But soon he's going deeper. And deeper. Fuck. John shudders. The grip around the base of his cock is perfection, _just_ right, just this side of too much, and God, John threads his fingers through Rodney's hair. He’s not going to last at this rate, is not going to last at all.

He pulls a little at Rodney's head, trying to get the point across, but Rodney isn't letting up, and John tries to pace himself, tries not to move, but he fails. Then Rodney's hands are there on his bare hips and hold him still, hold him back. John swallows thickly, thankful for the added control, for the restrain, because his is gone, baby, gone, like always with Rodney, crumbled into a million jagged shards of want and need and don't give a damn.

John closes his eyes and feels the tension coil deep inside, growing stronger with every move. He pulls his knees higher and everything but friction and wet pressure is pushed to the dim periphery of his mind. His bare feet search for purchase against the sheets, and he forces his breath through clenched teeth now, straining up to meet every exquisite move Rodney’s mouth makes. He wants more. More. He squeezes his eyes shut. He's always wanted more with Rodney. Always wanted too much.

"Rodney," he pants, a warning.

Rodney pulls back and replaces his mouth with his hand. "Come on," he coaxes, his voice rough. "Come on."

John's back arches up with the added friction of Rodney's calloused hand and too soon the rhythm is lost; one, two, three hard thrusts and he can't contain the stuttering exhalation as the universe closes in on him, overtakes him.

The white noise fades into the background roar of his blood as he slumps back heavily, and he lies there for a moment with his eyes closed, simply trying to remember how to breathe right.

He can hear Rodney move, can feel the mattress dip, and when he cracks his eyes open, his efforts to calm his breathing are for nothing, because Rodney is licking his fingers, one at the time, coating all of them and his palm liberally with saliva. John swallows dryly as Rodney wraps his wet fingers around his own cock. He makes sure he takes about six-hundred mental snapshots, because this - Rodney kneeling between his legs, naked and pale and sweaty, mouth half-open and one hand jerking himself hard - is an image that will keep him warm on many a cold, lonely nights.

He forces himself to ignore the post-sex lethargy that is setting in, and he sits up, scoots closer. He wraps a hand around the back of Rodney's warm neck and pulls him in. Rodney's open mouth meets his in a wet and sloppy kiss. John remains close when Rodney presses his forehead against his shoulder and rocks them both with every move of his hand.

Soon Rodney is panting, the humid puffs of breath moist against John’s collarbone. "Oh, fuck. _Fuck_." His shoulders are hunched, his head down and his eyes closed. "I'm gonna-" He cuts himself off and runs his fist all the way down. "I want-"

He sounds almost desperate, and John reaches over, wraps his fingers around Rodney's, and it doesn’t take long before Rodney shudders hard and warm wetness spills over John fingers.

John waits until Rodney's ragged breathing slowly evens out, then grabs his t-shirt and wipes them both off in silence. He lobs the shirt onto the floor when he's done and hooks his arm around Rodney's neck, pulls him down.

"Let's get under the covers," he says, and Rodney nods against him.

John turns out the lights. The sheets are soft and cool and he’s free-falling towards sleep within minutes, lulled by the distant voices of people walking past in the hallway and the quiet rumble of the air conditioning.

"On average there are 336 dry days a year here." Rodney's voice pulls him back.

The way he says it sounds almost like a confession, but that doesn't make any sense at all, and John is tired and jet-lagged and completely sexed out, and really, some of Rodney's leaps of logic are difficult to follow even when he’s got all of his brain working. 

"That's-" he clears his throat, because his voice is rough from near-sleep. "That's a lot of dryness," he says, and hopes it's neutral enough for whatever Rodney is aiming at.  
  
"Yeah," Rodney agrees.  
  
From the tone - distant and flat - John knows that he's missing something here. "Too dry for me." He turns into Rodney's shoulder. "I like San Diego better." Rodney lifts his arm and John makes himself comfortable against his side, sorting out knees and elbows. "It has an ocean," he sighs wistfully.

“Atlantis has an ocean.”

“But no good waves. Too deep."

“Don’t I know it,” Rodney says darkly. He is quiet for a moment. "I promised myself long ago that on the next trip back, I would go someplace where the chances of rain were slim."  
  
"How long ago?"

Rodney makes a vague hand motion next to him in the darkness, his eyes on the ceiling above them. "Oh, way, way back when we had the pleasure of welcoming--" he doesn't stumble as much as he hesitates over the name, "--Kolya to Atlantis."   
  
The storm. The punishing hurricane winds. Atlantis under attack. Almost losing Elizabeth. Rodney dripping wet and bleeding in front of Kolya. Rain. So much rain. The desert destination suddenly makes sense.  
  
"Besides," Rodney continues with a shrug that’s a decent imitation of casual, "Vegas seems like something one should see."

John keeps his eyes on the outlines of the window and doesn't move. A thin sliver of light finds it way past the curtain on one side. He can still recall the sound of ricocheting bullets as he ran for cover after raising the shield that night. It had been a high-risk move, and some people had questioned his mental state, had openly speculated that he had a death wish. He doesn’t. Protecting others is his job, and he would – if not happily, then at least without regrets – give his life if it was the only way to keep Atlantis and her people alive and safe.  
  
That doesn't change the fact that he still sometimes wakes with the dull sound of bodies colliding with the shield in his ears. Enemy soldiers, reason reminds him when he lies in his bed and tries to will himself back to sleep. (Fifty-five human beings, his traitor conscience whispers.)

He tightens his arm around Rodney. The stay like that, silent and unmoving – Rodney staring at the ceiling, John at the window – and the sleep that had been so tantalizingly close just moments ago is suddenly as distant to John as the Pegasus galaxy.  
  
* * *  
  
Eventually John must have drifted off, because he’s yanked back from sleep by a sudden, insistent beeping. He rolls over and fumbles for his radio on the nightstand, but it’s not there. When he blinks the room into focus, he sees Rodney stagger around with one foot in his pants, trying not to stumble while squeezing the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

Vegas. He’s in Vegas, not Atlantis.

"Told you they'd find a way," Rodney grumbles when he sees John awake. He manages to get his pants up and buttons them, then reaches for the Snickers bar hiding behind the already booted-up laptop. Apparently he'd already been awake, working.

"What's going on?" John pushes the covers to the side and reaches down and grabs his jeans from the floor. He retrieves his pager from the pocket and squints at the display. It's dark and empty.

Rodney motions for him to shut up. "Hello?" He chews furiously to clear his mouth. "Of course this is Dr. McKay! You paged me, who else would it be?!" Rodney turns his back on John and concentrates on the unfortunate soul on the other side of the call.

John dresses quickly, listening with one ear to Rodney and his sharp, impatient questions. He glances again at his own pager. It remains dormant. He hopes it will stay that way, because if they're only paging Rodney it's probably SGC business, as opposed to Atlantis business.

He's washing his hands when Rodney shows up in the door to the bathroom. He’s off the phone. "What's up?" John asks again.

Rodney pushes past him. "The lemmings messed up, and now they need me to come fix it." He stops and looks down at himself. "Why the hell did I even bother getting dressed?” he muttered. “I need a shower." He starts unbuttons his pants again. "They'll be here in one hour to pick me up."

"Don't they have anyone else who can do it?" John tries his best not to whine

Rodney pulls his t-shirt over his head. "Sure they do. Her name is Samantha Carter, and she's traipsing around on some backwoods planet on the other side of god knows where, out of radio contact." He reaches into the shower and turns it on.

"Then they better they have room for one more when they come pick you up."

Rodney pauses his undressing. "You think that's a good idea?"

John rolls his eyes. "They already know we're meeting up in Vegas, Rodney. And it's not like I know anyone here. I would be bored out of my head in two hours flat on my own. So I’m going back with you.”

He leaves the bathroom before Rodney can protest.

It's 3:44 AM, but the hotel has 24-hour room service, and he orders a burger and fries and a large glass of apple juice for Rodney (because they never did get around to eat). He looks longingly at the orange juice, but decides he doesn't need the allergy lecture when he's running on three hours of sleep. In the end he gets apple juice, too, along with yoghurt and fruit. And lots and lots of strong coffee for them both.

When Rodney gets out of the shower, they pack, and while they eat Rodney makes another three agitated phone calls. Then it's time to go, and John's fingers are already closing on the door knob, but before he can open it, Rodney wraps his hand around his arm and turns him around, backs him up against the wall.

"Thanks," Rodney says, but the kiss tastes like an apology.

They are standing very close and John puts his arm around Rodney's warm neck and holds him there when the kiss ends. "Sure," he says easily. "What for?

"For coming here? With me?"

"Any time." And John finds that he means it. So very much.

They're in the elevator going down when Rodney speaks again. "Sorry for making you miss out on, you know," he waves his hand aimlessly, "all those things."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "We’ll get to them some other time."

Rodney shoulders the laptop case, and John catches the edge of a pleased smile before Rodney turns as the elevator stops and the doors slide open.

  
* * *

John falls asleep on the short trip to the airport with his head against the backseat window and the lights of Las Vegas passing by outside. It's still dark. He wakes only when Rodney opens the door and the roar of jet engines revving up fills his ears.

They're parked on the tarmac right next to the Embraer jet, and John squints and blinks at the wing tip strobe light as they duck under it and climb up the steps. He straps himself in at the back of the cabin and he's skimming the edges of sleep again before they're even taxing out onto the runway.

He doesn’t quite make it all the way down to deep sleep during the flight, he's distantly aware of time passing and Rodney talking on the phone while clacking away at the keyboard. He cracks his eyes open at one point and finds the cabin dark. Across the isle Rodney looks concerned in the light from his laptop. Concerned but not panicked, and that's always a good sign.

As if Rodney can feel John's eyes on him, he looks up, the frown still in place. They stare at each other for a long, drawn-out second before Rodney's eyes flicker to the front of the cabin where the attendant is flipping through a magazine.

He glances back at John and grumbles, "go back to sleep," before returning to his calculations.

John shifts and pulls the blanket that someone has draped over him closer. It could be worse, he thinks. He's with Rodney, and it's nice and warm under his blanket. And besides, take-out and bad movies in Vegas aren't all that different from take-out and bad movies under a mountain in Colorado Springs.

~ The End ~


End file.
